


Speech Without Words

by Katzedecimal



Series: The Sounds of Silence [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Friendship, Gen, Romantic Friendship, compassion can be expressed in many ways, it takes all kinds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:42:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Watson has had a bad day and doesn't want to talk about it.  Sherlock's happy to oblige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speech Without Words

It was the quiet, really. 

Not silence. It had been silent in his bedsit, with only the creaking of floors, the hiss of radiators and the rattling of the windows; small sounds that served only to format the silence into boldcaps. 

Definitely not noisy. The medical ward had been filled with noise: The groans of injured soldiers (the _other_ injured soldiers), the sounds of vomiting patients and the hurried feet of nurses, the murmurs of doctors and the scratching of their pens, the jingle of curtains being drawn and opened, the beeps and hums of instruments, the sounds of soldiers weeping in the night, when they thought they wouldn't be heard. The clinic was filled with noise: Crying children, complaining parents, lonely seniors who needed an ear to talk to more than any medicine, stubborn men who insisted they were fine in the face of all the evidence, receptionists wittering on about the latest "reality" show. First-world noises that made John Watson, survivor of many years at the front lines, both grateful for their ignorance and despising of it. Then he'd come home to the quiet of 221b.

It was seldom truly silent in the flat. There were the usual hums of the refrigerator and the clicks of the radiators, the distant sounds of Mrs. Hudson's telly or her voice whenever she was on the phone. There was usually music, whether playing on the stereo or produced by his flatemate's violin. It was usually classical, often Baroque, but sometimes it was jazz or even Celtic fiddling. John had learned how to read the gist of Sherlock's mood by the music that was playing. Almost always, it was instrumental, seldom songs with lyrics - lyrics were distracting. 

And so John would come home, hang up his coat and walk through the sitting room on his way to the kitchen, and Sherlock would glance up at him with a little smile as he passed. That was all, just a little glance and smile that meant 'Oh, you're home, nice to see it.' No "Hello, how was your day, you look tired," and John was glad of that. He found he often needed a few minutes to change gears and unwind a bit, after a day at the clinic. He needed a cuppa, or often a beer. Most of all, he needed some peace and quiet, and alone of everyone John had ever lived with, Sherlock was more than willing to provide it. 

The music changed to something soothing, comforting. Brahms, possibly, which meant that Sherlock had picked up on John's stress. Sometimes, after retrieving a beer from the fridge (and grimacing at whatever experiment was sitting beside it), John would come back out to the sitting room, sit in his chair and sip, then start to talk about his day. It might be good, it might be bad, it might be enthusing over the latest medical gadget they'd acquired, it might be ranting about how stupid people could be. Sherlock never moved, never looked up, never nodded or acknowledged any of it, never appeared to be listening at all. John had learned otherwise; he'd get up and see that Sherlock had opened a search engine and was looking up the gadget's technical specs, or he might find a commiserating Happy Bunny sticker on his bedroom door. But sometimes, John didn't want to talk about it. Like tonight. 

Sometimes, Sherlock didn't talk for days. John didn't take it personally - it was the very first thing Sherlock had disclosed about himself, which meant it was habit and not anything John was or wasn't doing. Eventually he'd worked out that Sherlock didn't talk simply because he didn't have anything to talk about. (When he _did_ have something to talk about, it could be hard to get a word in edgewise, but John had figured out how to work with that, too.) But John had found that he didn't have to talk, either, and he found that relaxing, freeing. There was no pressure in 221b. No pressure to play out a role or be entertaining or to talk if he didn't feel like talking. Sherlock didn't take it personally, either. John had found that he didn't have to talk to communicate, and on nights like tonight, his silence communicated volumes. 

The delivery arrived as a mild surprise. John hadn't ordered and Sherlock hadn't spoken, which meant he'd either texted it or ordered online. Thai curry, something John found tasty and comforting. His favorite comfort food was Mrs. Hudson's bubble and squeak but on a night like tonight, he had no stomach for Mrs. Hudson's concerned wittering. Which was a pity because he could _really_ have done with a hug right now. He took his bowl over to the couch and gave Sherlock an inquiring look, hand hovering over the telly remote. Sherlock turned off the music, closed his laptop and pecked off a brief text message, then picked up his bowl to join John on the couch. 

He sat too close, of course. As usual. This time, he was sitting even closer than usual and his weight created a gravity well that was pulling John in. He ended up with his thigh and shoulder pressed against Sherlock's. After a moment's internal quibble, he shrugged mentally. The contact was nice; it was nice, comforting, to know that Sherlock was _there._

It was nice to know that he _mattered_ to Sherlock. That Sherlock saw him, observed him, deduced his moods and needs, then sought to fill them in his own pragmatic way. All without either of them saying a word. Heck, he'd probably deduced what had happened today that put John in his mood. And then he'd changed off of the music he'd been listening to, ordered John's second-favorite comfort food, then turned the music off entirely and halted his own work, to watch boring crap telly with John, because John needed to know that he was worthwhile. Heck, he was probably sitting too close on purpose, too. 

They'd polished off the Thai curry and sat through one of the detective shows that Sherlock hated the most (he called them 'defective shows,' really, even John admitted the writing was terrible, poorly researched and had plot-holes large enough to lose a lorry in) when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. 

"Sherlock texted me, said you'd had a bad day, so I made up a bread-and-butter pudding," she said, handing him a steaming casserole dish. 

"Awwwww, you're wonderful, Mrs. Hudson, you really are. Thank you," John took it from her, set it down, then got that hug that he sorely needed. It came with a small amount of witter but he was in a better state now and mercifully, she kept it short. He took the dish to the kitchen to spoon it up then brought the bowls out. He handed one to Sherlock and thought about how his flatmate had been sitting in physical contact with him. Then John sat at the corner of the couch, further away, and dug into the pudding. When he was done, he set the bowl on the coffee table, then leaned back and stretched his arm along the back of the couch, foregoing the 'yawn and stretch' maneuver that usually went with it. 

Long seconds stretched out as Sherlock tried to work this out. Finally, he flopped against John and pulled his arm around his shoulder; John smirked because Sherlock's expression was the one that he got whenever he thought he was taking a long risk. John smiled, then he pulled out his phone.

[20:13 John Watson: Good Thai. Nice hug.]

Sherlock snerked and was about to put his phone back down when it chirped again.

[20:14 John Watson: You're better than wonderful. Thanks for everything tonight.]

Sherlock gazed at it for a moment, then looked up at John like he didn't know quite how to respond. John saved him the trouble; he snugged his friend, rubbing his bicep lightly, then reached for the remote to flip to something more tolerable. 

Best friend was best, for a very good reason.


End file.
